


if I was your mother

by janie_tangerine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bottom Jon Snow, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Freudian Elements, Hurt/Comfort, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I Don't Even Know, I MEAN THIS IS THE MOST FREUDIAN PORN I HAVE EVER WRITTEN so, I SUPPOSE IT SHOULD BE, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Light Dom/sub, Mommy Issues, Mommy Kink, Mother Complex, Nightmares, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Resurrection, Scars, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, What Have I Done, Woman on Top, Ygritte Lives, most probably, the freudian porn you didn't know you wanted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-07 02:51:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14071302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: “Jon,” she breathes against his mouth, “sweetling, you know, there’s nothing wrong with what you want.”“What - oh - what do you mean?” he asks, even if comes out more as a moan than as a proper sentence.“I think know why you wanted me to sing t’you,” she whispers against the shell of his ear. “That’s what my mother did.”Oh. Oh -“I don’t mind. You wouldn’t be the first t’want it. If that’s what you want, I can do that.”“I - I couldn’t -”“Sweetling, you can. I want you to say it. There’s nothing wrong, all right?”Or: in which Jon has needs and Ygritte obliges.





	if I was your mother

**Author's Note:**

> ... Hello, I might have done a re-read of Jon's ASOS chapters for reasons plus his ACOK ones where Ygritte showed up. I went like 'ah I didn't recall exactly how she was hitting on him from the first damned moment while discussing a song that could have been written about his damned mother', then I got feels and this shit happened and guys idek because this is really not my kink BUT IT'D BE JON'S SO WHO AM I TO JUDGE HIM and I thought I'd just go for the pwp in the beginning and then I decided that if I didn't fix things it was gonna be too fucking depressing so this is way longer than it has any right to and idek what I'm doing but I thought it was a travesty that no fic on this specific topic with this specific ship existed as far as I knew and I had to rectify the situation. Idk. Have some porn guys. Hopefully it's not weird.
> 
> Specific things: GRRM has obviously _not_ graced us with the lyrics to that damned song about Bael and the late Lord Stark's daughter, but this group The Starlings went and wrote them and actually recorded the song sparing me the effort to write the lyrics so I took the liberty to steal them. Their a++ version is [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9NnntbaMISk), thanks guys. And thank them because if I had to make up the lyrics they'd have been atrocious. 
> 
> Other than that: nothing belongs to me, they're GRRM's (lol you think I'd have killed my own ship if I wrote it come on), the title is from a Bon Jovi song from the olden times that you should be warned was the only thing I listened to while writing this thing and I only own the porn. Here you go now I'll saunter back downwards for real. /o\

 

I

 

They’re still days from the Wall when Jon asks her.

He doesn’t even know what possesses him to, or why it sounds like a good idea.

Maybe it’s that he had some of Tormund’s mead during dinner.

Maybe it’s that today they’re sleeping on the outskirts of the camp and no one is around.

Maybe it’s that she spent half of their time at dinner not talking but humming something under her breath and the sound of her voice never fails to stir something in him, for bad or good.

Maybe it’s that yesterday he had a fairly unsettling dream that ended with both the Halfhand and his uncle and his father looking down at him in such disappointed ways that he woke feeling like he could throw up.

Maybe it’s all of that.

Still -

“Ygritte?” He whispers into the night. It’s warm, under their furs. It’s really not outside, even if they’re in a tent, small as it is.

“Aye?”

“I - when I held you prisoner.”

“Oh, when you _stole_ me,” she laughs against his chest.

“I _didn’t_ steal you, but if that’s all the same to you, whatever.”

“You know nothing. Anyway, yes, _when you stole me_. You were saying?”

He takes a moment to gather the guts to ask. He doesn’t think he’s ever asked such a thing of anyone else, and it’s probably _dumb_ and ridiculous and not at all befitting his - well, a man of the Night’s Watch, if he’s still one.

“You - you told me that story. Of the rose of Winterfell.”

“I did. And I still can’t believe you didn’t understand I was hoping you’d pluck me after _that_ , but never mind.”

“You said it was a song and that your mother sang it for you, didn’t you?”

“She did, aye. And it was a very fine song. Why’s that?”

He doesn’t know if he can look at her as he asks for it, but as much as he’s lost a _lot_ of shame when it comes to her or to her people, he doesn’t think he can ever _not_ feel it when discussing this topic.

“You - would you mind doing the same for me?” He blurts, even if a voice is whispering, _why would you torture yourself like this?_

_Because if she says no, maybe it will be easier to leave when I have to -_

_And if she says yes, won’t it be so much harder?_

“As in, you want me to sing it?”

“If you remember it. And if you want, of course.” He opens his eyes. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I mean, it’s just -”

He stops his tirade at once the moment her hand moves up to his face and then behind his neck, grabbing strongly enough that he’s thrown out of that line of thought.

“I never said I didn’t want to,” she says, sounding almost amused. _But not cruelly so_. “And I rememb’r it well enough. I _can._ Why’s that? You want to know how it sounds, Jon Snow?”

“Maybe,” he agrees. _And because no one ever sang anything for me and sometimes I wonder how it feels._ He considers _not_ telling her, but after all, it’s not the worse secret he might keep from her, and so he tells her. She _looks_ at him, for a moment, then nods.

“All right,” she agrees, shrugging.

“Wait, _really_?” He asks - he had thought it would take way longer than that to convince her.

“Yes, _really._ Why, Jon Snow, you’d thought I’d say no?”

“I - I don’t know what I thought,” he admits. “It wasn’t something I ever thought I’d ask anyone. I knew they’d say no.”

“Kneelers,” she sighs with disgust. “Well, this _free woman_ isn’t sayin’ no to a fairly harmless request. And come back here, it’s cold.”

He moves back down, his head landing on her shoulder as her hand goes around his shoulders.

She clears her throat, a hand going to his hair, casually.

“ _He was so young and daring, they called him Bael the Bard,_ ” she starts, keeping her voice low enough that she won’t wake anyone else camping nearby but high enough that he can hear her. “ _Lord Stark named him a coward, ‘cause Bael was hard to hunt, young prankster made a promise: my wrathful Lord, I bet, I’ll give you a little lesson, but painful to forget_ -”

For a moment Jon wonders, _how was this Lord Stark so different from my own father?_ \- surely Ned Stark never was _wrathful_. But if this ever happened, it was a long time ago, he decides. He breathes out as Ygritte’s hand cards through his hair, trying to _not_ think about his father who would most definitely be disappointed in him right now, and concentrates on what she’s singing instead.

“ _Oh Winterfell, your roses are beautiful and blue, a story of more sadness the Kingdom never knew_ … _Bael climbed the Wall at nightfall and entered Winterfell, he sang his songs until ‘till midnight, and put a spell on them, Lord Stark asked him, for the Gods’ sake, what present should I bring?, the blooming winter flower, I’m begging you, my king_.”

It’s - it’s a _nice_ song, Jon thinks. It sounds _sad_ , but then again when the refrain goes like, _a story of more sadness the Kingdom never knew_ , what could he expect? But Ygritte’s voice is steady and sure and it sounds so very lovely, and her skin is soft and warm and her fingers cradling his scalp feel _good_ the same way they had when she had cured the wound the eagle gave him.

(Back then, her hands had been so light and gentle on his face, while she muttered curses about Orell having ruined the sweet look of it, and Jon doesn’t think anyone’s ever thought his face _sweet_ \- long, stern, sure, but _sweet_? - but it must have been to _her_ , and it’s not as if anyone had ever bandaged his wounds or cleaned them the way Lady Catelyn did for his trueborn siblings, and he never resented them _that_ , but at times he had thought, _how would it feel to have someone do it for me?_ , and right _then_ he had thought, _maybe that’s how it feels_ , and then he had chased that thought away for the utter shame of it.

That was _then_ , though.)

“ _The morning sun was sleepy when Bael had disappeared, and Winterfell, your maiden, had disappeared with him - Lord Stark had cried his eyes out, my daughter, is she dead? The blooming winter flower is laying in her bed_ ,” Ygritte goes on, her voice taking a slightly sadder tone, and as she sings the refrain again, her free arm moves around his back. “ _No daughter and no heirs, Stark knew his line was doomed, but the Gods heard his prayers, the girl was back in her room, she’s holding a crying infant, a bastard, a prankster’s child, the old man’s face was pale-white with a tired, bitter smile_.”

Huh. A bastard.

 _Just like me. How enchanting._ Maybe he should have asked her for _another_ song, but he cannot tell her to stop now, and he wants to hear all of it, hells, it’s _nice_ to have her voice brush against his ear-shell as her hand keeps on cradling his head.

“ _When thirty years later, the Young Lord came to the throne, red rivers of his anger had washed the Frozen Ford, then he came back in glory, with Bael’s head on a lance - well, it was swinging softly, with a full of sorrow glance; incapable of killing his son, his own blood, Bael let himself be murdered, a bitter grin of the gods. Poor child, we’re lost, I’m crying, ‘cause kinslayers are damned - who’s gonna save our souls now? And his mother had dropped dead. Oh Winterfell, your roses are beautiful and blue, a story of more sadness, the Kingdom never knew_ …” Her voice trails away, and it’s obviously the end of it -

And to his own horror he realizes that his eyes are somehow wet and that he started crying at _some point_ during the last part of it. Not _too much_ , but enough that she might’ve noticed, and the worst thing is, it’s not even because that song was _sad_ or because it touched him particularly - it’s a stupid made-up story after all - but because he _did_ like how it felt to have her whispering it softly into his ear, and he had thought, _how stupid is it to rue that it’s the first time someone does it for me_?

“Jon, sweet, what’s wrong?”

She _always_ calls him that, damn it, and he actually _likes_ it, as weak as that makes him, but now it just makes him feel like crying harder because _when was the last time he was ever asked that -_

He could tell her, _everything._ Or, _that I will have to leave you at some point and I don’t want to and I wish there was anything I could do to not lose you without losing my honor, too._

Instead -

“I’m - I’m fine,” he says, though he doesn’t exactly meet her eyes. “It’s just - I didn’t know it’d feel this nice,” he admits, _still_ not quite looking at her. “Thanks,” he adds, more softly, and he doesn’t add, _gods but I wish you’d do it again_.

“You’re welcome,” Ygritte replies, but she doesn’t sound too convinced. “But there’s something you aren’t tellin’ me, Jon Snow.”

 _A lot more than something_.

“We’re free folk, if you’ve forgotten. Whatever’s naggin’ at you is probably some southern nonsense. Do I have t’remind you that we care naught for your kneeler ways?”

She doesn’t. She doesn’t, true, but asking once was explainable. If he asks again it would be _weak_ , and he shouldn’t want it, he shouldn’t -

“Do you think you could do that again?” He blurts before he can think back on it.

He doesn’t resist when she cups his face and turns it towards her and he doesn’t fight it - he meets her eyes, finally, and he feels such relief when he sees that she’s not looking at him _wrong_ , he could cry _again_. Or more than he already is.

“What, singing?”

“Please?” He manages to say, before he can lose the nerve to do it. “I just - I always asked myself how it’d be like and now that I do -”

“That same one or another?” Ygritte interrupts him, and he _could_ weep in relief.

“I don’t care. Whatever you want.”

“Hm,” she clears her throat. “That one didn’t seem to make you happy, though.”

“I was. Really. It’s not the song.”

“So you say. Well, seems like _I_ plucked one blue rose from Winterfell after all.” She smiles, a _nice_ , sweet smile that doesn’t show her teeth. “Let’s see. Mine own mother didn’t just sing _sad_ songs. And y’re lookin’ too sad already.” She moves a hand to the side of his face, wiping away the salt clamming his skin. “Maybe this other one.” She clears her throat again, moving on top of him, taking his face into both hands. “ _My featherbed is deep and soft, and there I’ll lay you down_ ,” she starts. “ _I’ll dress you all in yellow silk, and on your head a crown, for you shall be my lady love, and I shall be your lord_.”

Oh. That one’s a love song, and he actually knows that, he’s heard it in Winterfell a few times, but the moment she looks down at him and tells him _that_ , and the gods know he’s no _lady love_ , but -

“ _I’ll always keep you warm and safe and guard you with my sword, and how she smiled and how she laughed, the maiden of the three -_ “

He honestly, _honestly_ hopes that she hasn’t felt how he shuddered when she said _I’ll always keep you warm and safe_ because gods if _that_ was something he always dreamed his mother, whoever she was, would do for him -

“ _She spun away and said to him, no featherbed for me, I’ll wear a gown of golden leaves and bind my hair with grass, but you can be my forest love and me your forest lass_ ,” she finishes, holding his head up, and she’s looking at him so - he doesn’t even know _how_ , but there’s a sweet look to her that’s somehow slightly different from the usual, and - he closes his eyes and lets his head drop forward, his forehead touching her chest, not even knowing what he’s looking for.

“Thank you,” he breathes against her skin. He doesn’t even know what else he should say to her. He doesn’t even know what in the seven hells was going on in the first place except that he feels like someone has just split him open and it’s _worse_ than the moment he broke his vows with her in the first place, and maybe he’s thinking, _why didn’t I ever get to have it when I should have_ , and he’s pretty sure his shoulders are shaking and he wants her to _do it again_ because now that he’s had a taste he wants more and he has absolutely no right to ask for it, never mind that with all the talk she makes about having children with _strong_ men he certainly can’t go on being like _this_ -

“You know,” she says, her hands carding through his hair all over again, and he has to bite his tongue to not whimper at how _good_ it feels, “you can ask for things.”

“I - what?”

He opens his eyes, looking up at her, and from the way she’s staring down at him she knows more than he does about what in the seven hells is going on here.

“You _can_ ask for things. What you like _here_ ,” she says, slow, “says nothin’ about you _out_ of here. You’ve met Jarl, he ain’t less of a man for what he and Val like to do under their furs.”

“Ygritte -”

“If you want me to _sing_ f’r you, I won’t think any less of you for it.”

“I shouldn’t -”

“You _can_ ask for things,” she says again, slow, steady, _patiently_ , the way -

Gods, _the way Lady Stark used to talk to Robb sometimes_ -

“Could -” He starts, swallowing his shame down along with the knot in his throat, “could you sing for me again? Please?”

“I couldn’t refuse when you ask so nice, sweet,” she says, and she _has_ to feel him shuddering at that. “Or maybe,” she says, as if _she_ is figuring it out, too, “you’d rather have _sweetling_?”

The moment she says it, she shudders so hard he almost knocks his head over her chest, and at this point he’s not even sure he has to _say_ it, given how obvious he’s been.

But - no one’s ever - his siblings, he heard Jeyne Poole’s father call her that a few times, he’s heard it from anyone who’s ever had a mother but _not directed at him_ -

“What if I do?” He breathes against her neck, momentarily forgetting everything else except how she feels against him and how her hands are cradling his head still.

Her lips press against his forehead. “Sweetling, it’s _fine_ if you do,” and then her mouth moves to the side of his head, then to the other, and at that point he doesn’t even try to hold back whatever tears he had left to spill, but then she wipes them away, kissing his cheeks before moving on to his mouth, and _now_ that he thinks about it he’s so turned on it hurts, and he doesn’t even think before parting his legs enough that she gets the hint, and a moment later she’s straddling him with a hand on his cock and the other at the back of his head, and he throws his arms around her neck, bringing her _closer_ -

She sinks down on him, and she’s as wet as she was that time in the cave, _good gods_ , he can’t believe that _she seems to want it as much as he does_ -

“ _My featherbed is deep and soft, and there I’ll lay you down_ ,” she sings softly as she moves her hips downwards, “ _I’ll dress you all in yellow silk, and on your head a crown, for you shall be my lady love, and I shall be your lord,”_ she trails away, and then, “but that’s not what you want, isn’t it? _Sweetling_?”

“No,” he agrees, shaking his head.

“Maybe - _I’ll always keep you warm and safe and guard you with my sword_ , that’s what you’d want?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he admits, and now that he’s done it, it doesn’t feel half as shameful to think that yes, _that’s exactly what he wants_ -

“Then I will,” she breathes, her hips slamming downwards again, and he knows he’s not going to last long. “It goes both ways, y’know. You are mine as I am yours. Ain’t nothing bad about it.”

He’s not even close to think, _no you can’t_ \- he knows that but right now he doesn’t even want to consider it, right now he just wants her to hold him close and tell him reassuring things that he knows won’t happen but that he _can’t care about it_ right now, not when he’s so fucking tired of shouldering responsibilities no one told him would come with the job when he took his damned vows. He knows she can’t. He just can’t care less about it right now.

He doesn’t even know what to answer to that, so he kisses her instead, and it’s messy and rough and not refined at all when he moves upwards, but she gets him to slow down and her tongue is running along his lips.

“Jon,” she breathes against his mouth, “sweetling, you know, there’s nothing wrong with what you want.”

“What - _oh_ \- what do you mean?” he asks, even if comes out more as a moan than as a proper sentence.

“I think know why you wanted me to _sing_ t’you,” she whispers against the shell of his ear. “That’s what my _mother_ did.”

Oh. _Oh_ -

“I don’t mind. You wouldn’t be the first t’want it. If _that_ ’s what you want, I can do that.”

“I - I couldn’t -”

“Sweetling, you can. I _want_ you to say it. There’s nothing wrong, all right?”

“There - there isn’t?” He hates how small his voice is sounding, he _hates_ it, if anyone else heard him he couldn’t bear it, but then again, no one else but her is hearing him, are they -

“No,” she says, and she sounds so sure of that, and he’s just so fucking _tired_ of telling himself that he doesn’t want it when it’s obvious that he _does_ -

She slows down, then moves slightly upwards and he knows that if she cants her hips down again he’s going to come, he can feel that, but then she doesn’t -

“So, how do you want to call me?”

“Ygritte -”

“ _How_ do you want to call me, _sweetling_?”

He breathes in, out, heat pooling at his groin, her fingers brushing at the fresh scar on the side of his head, and then she leans down to kiss it the way she _hadn’t_ done when she cleaned the blood off it first -

( _And the way he saw Lady Catelyn kiss his siblings’s scratches once upon a time_ )

“Please, _mother_ ,” he blurts, and he doesn’t have time to feel ashamed of it because she smiles down at him as she leans down to kiss him and sinks down on him _again_ and a moment later he’s coming so hard he’s shaking, and her hands are all over his back, bringing him closer and raining kisses all over the bridge of his nose, and she’s also clenching around him as her hands grab at his shoulders, and when he’s not trembling anymore and he’s completely spent, she pulls off and lays him back down on the ground, one hand at the back of his head still and the other around his shoulders. He breathes in and out quickly, maybe a bit too much, but he feels loose now, in ways he can’t remember, and he doesn’t even want to move for that matter. He just looks up at her and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen a more beautiful woman in his entire life, and patience if she most likely looks _nothing_ like his real one, whoever she is.

“You’re tired,” she tells him, with a tone that suggests she isn’t particularly waiting for a reply. “And we have an early morning. Go to sleep.”

“I -”

“We can talk later.”

Right. She doesn’t want to talk. But he doesn’t think he _could_ talk, now.

He closes his eyes.

“There you go,” she says, slow, _warm_ , and - “I think I know what you’d like now.”

He doesn’t ask what. A moment later, her voice is filling his ear again as she starts singing _Winterfell’s Rose_ , and at that point he hides his face against her shoulder, exhaling in relief when she moves a hand behind his back and keeps him _there_.

He’ll think about how he _shouldn’t_ have gone this far tomorrow.

For now, he’s not even going to _think_ of what happens tomorrow.

——

Tomorrow, she obviously senses that he’s feeling somewhat ashamed of it, but she merely grins and tells him he knows nothing and that he’ll learn quick enough, and leaves him alone about it.

 _Tomorrow_ , they do things as usual, and if a small part of him is suggesting to _ask_ her again before it’s too late and he can’t even have that small taste he’s just gotten, he ignores it.

But in the night he ends up opening his eyes after another goddamned nightmare in which _Robb_ was looking at him with sad eyes and blood falling from a hundred arrow wounds, whispering _why didn’t you come to me when you could_ , and he doesn’t scream as he wakes up for reasons absolutely unknown to him because gods he _wanted_ to, and tonight they’re camping with another twenty people around them and he can’t really afford to let anyone hear, he can’t -

“Jon?” Ygritte whispers, barely audible, bringing their furs over both their heads. It’s warm under here, but outside it was cold and in his dream it was colder than the hardest winter night he can remember, and maybe it’s a good thing that it’s dark and he can’t see her and she can’t see him.

“‘m fine,” he manages to croak back, and it’s obvious from his tone that he really is _not_.

Her fingers touch his face, wiping what’s most definitely cold sweat from his skin.

As if he could fool her.

“No, you’re not,” she says, sounding like she’s smiling a bit as she speaks, but it’s pitch black and he can’t see her. “Should I say it?”

Oh.

_Oh._

She’s asking if -

Part of him just wants to say no. He shouldn’t. It was enough. It should have never happened.

But another part of him, which has most probably realized that until he’s with her it’ll be the freest he will ever get to be in his entire life, is saying, _no one’s ever ran to your bedside if you had nightmares bar Robb when he noticed, and it shouldn’t have been him, and Robb wasn’t - wasn’t - he_ wasn’t, _do you really want to never know how it might feel_?

Even if he’s sure that the moment he tastes it, giving it up will be even more painful?

“Yes,” he whispers, and then, “ _please_ ,” because after all if anything his _father_ did teach him some manners, didn’t he?

Her free hand grabs the back of his neck a moment later, moving over so that they’re pressed tight against each other but his head is tucked under her chin, and gods she’s so _warm_ , and he’s shivering from the cold that stuck to his bones from that damned dream, and he doesn’t even know where he should put his hands so he keeps them stuck to his side. For now.

“Sweetling, I _get_ why you think you have to do it, but there’s no point in lying. ‘Specially not to _me_.”

Somehow, he feels like someone just stabbed him in the heart.

“I - I know,” he finally says, and gods _if only he could tell her the whole truth_ -, “I’m sorry.”

“No need to be sorry. I know you didn’t mean it. So, are you all right?”

He loves and hates how _firm_ she sounds at the same time.

“I -” He whispers, barely audible, “no.” It was easy enough to admit it.

He’s _not_. Though not for reasons he can tell her.

“I thought so,” she goes on, her fingers combing through his hair. “Can you talk about it?”

 _Can you_.

Good question.

“Not now,” he blurts, truthfully enough - maybe he could tell her tomorrow, maybe at some point, but not right this moment. Right this moment he doesn’t even want to think about it.

Then he realizes that he _has_ moved his hands and he’s grabbing at her back hard enough it has to hurt, but she doesn’t seem to be having a problem with it. She runs a hand along his back, slow, up and down, rubbing it strongly enough that he starts to feel some heat trickling in and he stops feeling so coiled.

He lets his hold loosen a bit, hoping she doesn’t have marks tomorrow.

“That’s fine,” she says, “you don’t have to. It’s good that you told me.”

She kisses the side of his head.

Then she does it _again_.

He doesn’t even try to _not_ stifle his sobs against her shoulder while her hand keeps on going up and down, up and down, and by the end he feels so exhausted that he knows that if she asked anything, he would answer the truth, whatever she did, and he’s too tired to care.

“Better?” She whispers, her lips brushing just under his eyes.

“Yes,” he doesn’t lie. At least he doesn’t feel so tense anymore. “I’m - I’m sorry I lied.”

 _Gods,_ why is he even doing this to himself? Hoping that when the time inevitably comes she thinks back on this and realizes that he meant, _about why am I really here_?

Even if right now, if she asked him to go back into that cave for good, he’d say yes, and he’d mean it.

“That’s all right, sweetling, it happens to everyone.”

Except that _he never could_ , or at least he never could lie if he knew someone would or could notice because then he’d just prove them right about bastards being liars, and isn’t it what he’s doing now -

“Was - was it really - _good_? That I told?”

He _hates_ how his voice sounds. But regardless of anything, as his head slips downwards and she hoists herself back up so that his temple is resting against her stomach, he just hopes -

“Of course it was.” She stops, as if she’s about to say _something_ , but then she doesn’t and instead she starts humming _Winterfell’s Rose_ under her breath. Of course she can’t sing, she’d wake the others up, but it makes his eyelids burn all over again as he closes them and he presses his forehead against her soft, warm skin.

If he closes his eyes and only thinks of _that_ , he can trick himself into believing it, maybe.

——

“It was about my brother,” he tells her the next day.

“Your brother?”

“Robb.” He doesn’t quite look at her. “I dreamed he was dead. And it wasn’t - good, I guess.”

“Did you hate ‘im?”

“ _No_ ,” he says immediately. “Sometimes - sometimes I resented him, sure, but I _loved_ him. I - I almost did desert the Night’s Watch when he was crowned.”

“Did he hate you?”

“No,” Jon replies softly. “No, I know he didn’t.”

“Then it’s about _you,_ Jon Snow, not about ‘im. Think about that, some time.”

She doesn’t tell him that he knows nothing, this time.

Then -

“And you can always _ask_ if you need things. Just so you know.”

Then she’s gone to get some food and he tries to not let shame get hold of him, since he just thought, _I think I might_.

——

He has to find the guts to do it, though.

He spends the entire day gathering the courage, and for once it means that he thinks more about _that_ than about - his vows, and what he _should_ do when they climb the Wall, and how he can attempt to - to _not_ leave her even if he _should_.

But then again she’s right up until a point - _here_ , no one but her is ever going to know, and he won’t be able to ask it of anyone again (not when he’s sworn off _any_ woman as long as he lives), and so what if now that he’s had some _semblance_ of something he’s wanted as long as he could remember

( _and has been denied all along as long as he could remember_ )

maybe he wants more?

He thinks of the first time, of how - how _horribly_ , strangely right it had felt.

How _bad_ it could be if he - did ask?

( _It would be greedy,_ another small part of him whispers. _Greedy and wanton and wicked -_

 _But here, it doesn’t matter_ , he thinks. _There are no bastards here. How beautiful would it be if it were so everywhere else_ , he doesn’t dare voice.)

She said - she said she _could_ do that, if he wanted. She obviously doesn’t mind. She doesn’t think it’s - strange or _bad_ , but then again, hadn’t he thought that touching a woman was something he _should_ not do out of decency and honor before, and there’s none of that in _here_?

Gods, how bad it is that he knows he’ll miss it, not having to prove all the time that he’s better than the name he has and worthy of the one he might’ve had if his -

If his _mother_ , whoever she is or was, he hopes _was_ -

At dinner, he waits until everyone else is distracted.

Then, when he knows he has her attention -

“Later,” he says. “Could we -?”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but he doesn’t expect her to smile as if she’s _happy_ he asked. “Aye,” she agrees. “See, you _did_ learn that you should ask for things, there’s some hope for the likes of you yet. Of course. _Later_. And how ‘bout you finish your food first? You’ve barely touched it.”

He eats, in full awareness that _no one_ has actually ever pressed him to finish his food the way Lady Stark always had to with Arya.

When they’re done, he doesn’t move as she exchanges a few words with Tormund and then informs him that she’s dead tired and she’s going to turn in and is he coming with her?

She holds out a hand.

He takes it. She helps him up. He doesn’t know if he should move it away or not -

She grasps tighter at it and drags him back to their tent.

He follows, figuring that no one will think it strange. They’ve held hands for a number of times in front of other people, after all.

Except that it’s _different_ now, isn’t it.

“What -” He whispers after she leads him inside the tent, still not letting his fingers go.

“I asked Tormund if he could make sure we’d be alone for a while,” she grins. “ _Sweetling_. And what d’you say to _that_?”

Oh. _Oh._

They’re doing it. Gods, they’re _doing it_ and it’s not a spur of the moment thing nor whatever happened last night, and she’s looking at him as if she’s ready to wait for him for the entire next moon, if it takes him that much time to do it.

But he doesn’t want to wait for the next moon. He wants to drop to his knees and take her breeches down and give her the lord’s kiss she likes so much, and he wants her hands on him again and he wants to hear her call him like _that_ regardless of how much shame he might feel for wanting it -

“Thank you,” he whispers, proper, _politely_ , the way he’s always done, and then - he knows his cheeks must be flushing and that it’s _ridiculous_ when he has half of his face still scarred and a burned hand whose fingers he’s been flexing since they left the fireplace, but she doesn’t seem to care and honestly, _neither can he_ , “ _mother_.”

“Aren’t you well-behaved,” Ygritte says, looking pleased, and why is a warm feeling spreading in his gut now? “You’re welcome, but we shouldn’t waste time now, should we?”

Then she moves, leading him gently to their bedroll, and he follows her, and maybe he wanted to drop to his knees but he waits until she moves behind him and gently pushes his shoulder down. He doesn’t for her to sit down in front of him too, and then he realizes he’s moved too soon as he puts a hand on the front of her groin. “Please, can I -” he blurts, almost shaking with need, and it’s music to his ears when she laughs and moves back so that she’s leaning against the side of the tent.

“You’re making it very hard to say no to you, sweet. Sure you can. Couldn’t say no when you ask this nicely.”

And then she moves her hands on her breeches and pushes them down and catches his when he raises them to grab at her hips, and - oh. Oh, so that’s how -

Fine. Not a problem, he decides, and then he moves forward and _finally_ puts his mouth on her cunt, not even circling or starting tentatively but going for it - he’s done that enough times to know how she likes it, and he _likes_ doing it also because with the way she moans he can only imagine how good it would make her feel, and gods but he _wants_ her to feel good because _he did it_ , and knowing that he did it when whoever took her maidenhead didn’t even think of it always gives him a certain sort of pleasure, but that’s not the point right now. The point is that now he’s licking at her and using his tongue to feel how wet she is, and she _is_ , damn, and that he’s burying his face in that flaming red hair on his groin and she’s clasping his hands and moaning his name softly, and he’s not even thinking about how hard _he_ is.

He doesn’t care, not when she’s warm and wet and firm and _real_ under him and her thighs are clenching around his face and he can feel her go rigid just a moment before she’s moaning and his mouth is sticky with salt and he can feel his cock stirring in his breeches but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter until she’s spent, and it doesn’t matter even later when she moves back and kneels down in front of him as he breathes in and out, licking her taste off his lips.

“You know,” she whispers, cupping his face again, “even if I _didn’t_ like this, now _that_? Would’ve been worth it.”

“If you didn’t -”

“Sweetling, I know you’re asking what I’m gettin’ out of this. Don’t you worry, both o’ us are getting somethin’ out o’it. Now how about you _stop worrying_ about things you shouldn’t be worryin’ about anyway?”

“All - all right,” he agrees, and honestly, maybe he really should, and she’s right, but of course she’s right, it’s not as if she _hasn’t_ been up until now, has she?

Then she loosens her hold on his hands, letting the left go, but then she looks at the right one, and he barely has time to wonder what she’s thinking before she’s kissed the burned skin on the outer side.

He doesn’t whimper just out of pure self-control.

“Look at that,” she says, moving away. “You never said how you got it.”

“Oh. I - a wight got into Castle Black. It was about to kill the Lord Commander. I burned it. That’s how I got my sword.”

“Some people I know would say it’s the stupid kind of brave. But I’m wonderin’, anyone kissed that better for you?”

Oh.

 _Oh_.

He feels like he’s been punched in the gut again. He suddenly sees in front of his eyes, _very clearly_ , every time he can remember Lady Stark pressing her mouth against the bruises _any_ of his siblings ever got, and of course he never got any, and _who_ was going to do that anyway -

He shakes his head. No. No one has. But he doesn’t think he has it in him to talk right now.

“Too bad. Guess I should do that now, then,” she smiles, and then she runs her tongue along the entire scar and then moves to the palm of his hand, trailing kisses all over it, and he stays there, without moving too much, if anything because he feels like he’ll crack open if he does, and then - he’s still clothed, because it’s fucking _cold_ and he there’s a reason she pulled up her breeches again, so she can’t do that on his chest where there’s also an abundance of bruises, but then she’s moving above him and her mouth is pressing against the still tender scar on his cheek, once, twice, _thrice_ , gods she’s trailing kisses all around it, and no, _now_ he feels cracked open, and he thinks, _maybe we should really go back to that cave and never leave_ -

Her hand trails under his waist, right inside his breeches, and his hips jerk upwards when she kisses the scarred flesh beneath his eye _and_ starts jerking him off, and at this point he’s not even trying to stay silent - or better, he makes noise _plenty_ but he’s beyond words beyond _yes_ and _please_ and he was so on the edge that he spills against her hand not long later, and good thing he’ll be good to go again in a short while because he doesn’t think he wants to be _done_ for now. He catches his breath as she moves damp strands of hair from his forehead, leaning down to kiss his mouth -finally - and he returns at once, his hands finding their way back to her hips.

“Would that be a stupid question if I asked if you liked it?” She grins a moment later, her blue eyes bearing down into his.

“You never ask stupid questions,” he manages to say, never mind that his voice sounds hoarse.

“Flatterer,” she laughs, but gods if he loves how her voice sounds. “Still. Did you?”

“Yes,” he agrees at once, _of course he did_ , it was obvious, “I - no one’s ever - thank you,” he settles on, not knowing if he can have this conversation from beginning to end. He doesn’t think he ever _could_.

“Why,” she says, “I might do it again then. Just t’be sure. If you _ask._ ”

Fair enough. And he said it already, after all. Can’t be too hard to do it twice.

“Please,” he says, and it doesn’t sound so complicated anymore - for now. “Please - _mother_ \- do it again?”

“But of course, my dear,” she replies, her tongue trailing along his cheek, and he spends one moment to wish he could save his vows without saying goodbye, and then he stops thinking altogether.

 

II

 

A long time later, he’s kneeling on the ground, trying to get that damned arrow out of his leg and choking on the tears that came unbidden as he pushed it back, wondering if anything has ever felt so painful in all his entire bloody life - not even getting his hand burned felt _this_ bad, or at least not right now.

Then he’s mounting on his horse and riding back towards the Wall, dragging that leg behind, hoping he makes it.

 _Now that’s a wound she won’t kiss better, isn’t it?_ , a small part of him that was pushing to _stay_ tells him.

Good thing it’s raining, he thinks. He can tell himself that he’s crying just out of reacting to the pain spreading through his leg, and not because he’d have deserved it if _she_ put that arrow there in the first place.

——

Even later, he _does_ wish for a fleeting moment that Maester Aemon’s rough hands were softer and smaller and more slender and without wrinkles.

He _does_ wish that _her_ hands would be on him.

He knows it’s moot and that he has to grit his teeth and do his duty, and so he keeps his mouth shut and only tells the maester and Donal Noye that he broke his vows with her out of duty, and nothing more.

He certainly can’t go tell them that doing his duty meant giving up one of the few people still living that he felt _right_ with.

Never mind the only one he could have shared _that_ part of himself with.

——

He does his duty and goes out to fight the wildlings, and if he doesn’t shoot that arrow when he’s sure he’s seen her on the other side, no one could blame him, he thinks.

Given how many other wildlings he shot arrows at, he thinks he’s done even more than his duty.

And then he’s walking among the rubble, desperately hoping that she’s _not_ there, hobbling on his crutch and feeling like his leg is on fire and wishing he could just _sleep_ -

That is, until he sees Ygritte leaning against one of the splintered pieces of wood with an arrow sticking out of her shoulder.

He notices that the feather is black.

 _Not one of mine_ , he thinks relieved, and he knows he shouldn’t be here, he shouldn’t do anything, he should let her do it and go back, but they have a maester and it’s not _lethal_ but it’s _bad_ and - and she’ll probably want to murder him right now, but he can’t care less.

“Don’t,” he says, coming closer, his throat feeling so dry it hurts to speak.

She looks up at him, and it’s more a surprised look than a betrayed one, and that’s what makes him act: he huffs, leans down and if he wants to howl in pain it’s not his problem, he grabs her arm on the good shoulder and hoists it around his shoulders, and then starts hobbling back.

“We have a maester,” he says, before she can say anything and give him a blow that might make him topple over. “He’ll see to you.”

“Jon -” She starts, and she stills sounds more baffled than angry. How is she _not_ angry? “Jon, ‘m your _enemy_ , he won’t -”

“We don’t kill prisoners, and _I_ am in charge or so it seems. He’ll see to you and you’re not dying on my watch,” he cuts her short.

“You can barely bloody _stand_ ,” she protests, but she’s going along with him, so it doesn’t matter.

“I can and I will. Just - believe me, I never - I _had_ to, but I didn’t want to. It was the thing I wanted less in the world.”

She says nothing, and he decides it’s better like this.

They’re hobbling along the stairs when she speaks again.

“Is - is this a proper castle?”

“Yes,” he confirms, glad that it’s a neutral question.

“Good. If I don’t make it, I wanted to see one before -”

“You’re _not_ dying,” he says, so forcefully he almost startles himself. “You’re not.”

He expects her to tell him he knows nothing.

She says no such thing.

He walks up the damned stairs, crutch and all, tells everyone else that she’s his prisoner and drags himself to where Maester Aemon is.

“Please,” he whispers, “just - don’t let her die.”

“Is she -” The maester starts.

“She is. I know, I _know_ , and I swear I won’t break my vows again should I die for it. But - _please_.”

Aemon’s lips curl into a hint of a smile. “You can go back. Don’t worry. I won’t.”

“Thank you,” Jon tells him gratefully, and while his leg doesn’t hurt any less as he heads to check what’s of Noye and his people, he feels - somewhat _better_ for it.

 

III

 

He doesn’t know what’s of Ygritte until he’s dragged out of the cell he had been thrown him the moment Ser Thorne showed up with Janos Slynt and decided he was actually guilty of treason.

He had figured he’d be brought over to Slynt and Thorne again.

He hadn’t expected _her_ to be there.

She’s pale, but she’s standing, and her shoulder is wrapped in linen, he can see it from under her shirt but it looks like it’s healing, and she also looks _angry_ as the seven hells, but - with Slynt, or Thorne, or both. Her hands are also tied, but he hadn’t expected any less.

“That old maester says I cannot hang you,” Slynt says. “He even has written Cotter Pyke, showed me the letter and said you’re no turncloak. And he has the _gall_ of doing it even after he saved your whore over here.”

Jon sees her opening her mouth.

“I already told you,” he says before she can say anything stupid and get sent to the gallows when he certainly didn’t save her so she could die on him all over again, “she’s _not_ a whore. And she yielded.”

That wasn’t true, technically, but _never mind that_.

“ _My lord_ , or have you forgotten how you should address me?”

He shrugs. “Apologies, _my lord_. That doesn’t make her a whore, _my lord,_ especially not when as far as she was concerned, _my lord_ , I _had_ turned my cloak. Which I didn’t do, _my lord,_ and I will never admit to the contrary myself.”

Ser Alliser scowls. “Aemon’s lived too long, my lord, his wits have gone dark as his eyes.”

“Aye,” Slynt echoes. “A blind man with a chain about his neck, who does he think he is?”

“And who d’ _you_ think you are?” Ygritte blurts, and Jon’s blood goes cold at once.

“Now _you_ keep your mouth shut, you unwashed whore,” Ser Alliser says. “That’s not why _you’re_ here.”

“I’m a _free_ woman and a free woman speaks as she likes, an’ if you don’t want to answer that’s good enough, but whoever the maester thinks he is, his wits’re certainly not as dark as _yours_ , and the _lord_ ’s here. Aye, he laid with me. And _aye_ , I believed he turned his cloak on you, and he was so good at pretendin’ that I never even thought once he didn’t mean it. An’ he _came back_ , an’ he _held the Wall_ , an’ he gave us a bloody good fight given that it’s still standin’ when we had ten times the men. I’ve been recovering from _this_ ,” she says, using her good hand to gesture at his shoulder, “enough time to see him givin’ my people a damn tough fight. An’ I also know it pained him to leave us, and he did ‘cause he had a duty to _you_ , and now that he’s back and he’s fought against people he’s rode with and eaten with and _laid_ with, for _you_ bloody crows, you throw him in a cell and accuse him of _oathbreaking_? I don’t know why I‘m here, I s’ppose nothing good, but if he betrayed someone in this room it was _me_ and not either of you. Or any other fucking crow hanging about.”

Jon doesn’t even know what in the Seven Hells he should say, he doesn’t understand if that was meant to defend him or not and in case, _why_ did she even do it when he deserves none of it, but from the way both Ser Alliser and Slynt are seething, he thinks she _did_ get them angry, and gods but he loves her for it, and he wants to tell her he never deserved her in the first place, but then Slynt ignores her outburst and looks back at him.

“As I was saying before your _whore_ interrupted us,” Slynt goes on, “I will not have it said that Janos Slynt hanged a man unjustly. I will not. I have decided to give you one last chance to prove you are as loyal as you claim, Lord Snow.” He stands, and Jon wants to ask him, _haven’t you had enough proof?_ “Mance Rayder wants to parley with us. He knows he has no chance now that I’ve come, so he wants to talk, this King-beyond-the-Wall. But the man is craven, and will not come to us. No doubt he knows I’d hang him. But he will not come. He asks that we send an envoy to him.”

“We’re sending you, Lord Snow.” Ser Alliser says.

“Why me?” Jon asks, trying to keep his tone of voice flat. “I’m not the person you want to send if you want to reach terms -”

“You rode with them, and you know them, and we aren’t sending you to parley with him. You have to _kill_ him.”

“I -”

“And if you don’t, you can be sure your _whore_ , that from what we’ve been told you went through a great amount of pain to save, whether she yielded or not, is hanging before sundown.”

Jon’s blood goes even colder. “Ser -”

“Let me rephrase it,” Slynt says. “If you go and don’t kill Mance Ryder, she’s hanging. If you go and kill him, _maybe_ we’ll let her live. So, are you going?”

“I am,” he croaks, “ _my lord_. As if you don’t know that I won’t know if you keep your word, _my lord,_ since if I do kill him, I will be the next one who dies. But I will _, my lord_. Because it’s my duty, _my lord_. And because you’ve left me no other choice. But I’m no oathbreaker, not to _you_.”

And then - what does he even have to lose at this point?

He turns towards Ygritte, meeting the blue of her eyes for the first time in what feels like years. “I’m sorry I lied,” he says, trying to keep his voice even, and he sees her eyes go _wide_ , and he hopes she understands -

And then he storms out of the room.

He’s absolutely sure he’s _never_ going to see her again.

He just hopes that Maester Aemon will take her side, if they hang her regardless.

 

IV

 

It’s the dead of the night where he finds the guts to knock on the door of the room she’s in, Ghost trailing at his heels and sitting down just outside. He’ll warn if anyone comes.

After Stannis came and after Mance was taken captive and after he won a Lord Commander’s cloak, he feels so exhausted he could faint, and - he hasn’t really seen her since he left on that blasted errand. She’s been sharing quarters with a few more wildling prisoners until, this afternoon, he said that he had plans concerning the situation and that he wanted the prisoners to have their own rooms, it’s not as if they were lacking for it. Given that the entire castle is storming with Baratheon soldiers, no one would try to escape anyway.

For a moment he considers what he’s about to do, and gods but if he was found out his commanding would be short-lived, but -

He _has_ to talk to her at least once.

Especially given that from tomorrow he has to try and think of how to solve this situation with Mance and his child, and gods but he has no strength left to even begin to consider it, and -

He just wants to apologize.

He knocks.

She opens the door a crack, and then -

“Jon Snow,” she says, “or should I say -”

“It’s - it’s all right. May - may I come in?”

“I was starting to think you had forgotten me,” she smirks, and he walks in as she closes the door.

“Don’t jape,” he replies, taking a deep breath. “Listen, I - I know I have no right to even be here. I can’t - there are things I need to tell you and if you don’t want anything more to do with me after I’m done you would be in the right. But - will you hear them?”

“Jon, I think that considering how you ‘bout _saved my life_ back during that battle I can listen to you, aye. Do go ahead.”

He breathes in. “You know by now that I _was_ only pretending to have turned my cloak. But I never _pretended_ anything when I was with you. The one thing that I couldn’t stand about that entire situation was that honoring my duty meant I would have to give you up and it was the thing I wanted least in the world. I - Stannis asked me to kneel to him so I could be legitimized.”

“Did he?”

“He wanted to _give me Val_ to marry. And hold Winterfell in his name.”

“ _Val_? He knows even less than you ever did.” Jon snorts - well, right, that’s a fair point.

“If - if it wouldn’t have meant dishonoring the place by burning down the ground upon which it stood, though, and taking something that belongs to my sister, and if it had to be _you_ , I might’ve taken that offer,” he says, forcing himself to look at her, and _then_ she gasps.

“Jon -”

“Believe me, the prospect of living there and maybe bring Gilly with and have _you_ with me and have _children_ with you was so alluring that if not for _that_ , it might’ve broken my resolve. Except that it was not to be, but I _would_ have wanted it, if you agreed.” He shakes his head. “But that’s not the point. The point is that I wronged you and I wish I never had to lie to you, and there’s nothing I want more than knowing you won’t hate me for it as long as you live. I couldn’t resent you if you did now.”

For a moment, she _stares_ at him, as if he’s left her without words.

But then -

“Jon Snow, you _really_ do know nothing. I’ve been told of what you explained your friends. That Halfhand told you to do _anything_ it took, includin’ killing him. And who’s the goddamned fool that dies for such a stupid cause and then puts the entire weight o’ it on _you_?”

Wait, _what_?

“You had a duty,” she sighs, “I understand. I don’t like it, and I don’t know how you can want to have a duty to people who’ll make you fight when you can’t _stand_ or hang you for an oathbreaker when you are no such thing. For one, I understand why Mance left your band of crows for sure. And I’ve seen that you’re way worse off than _we_ ever were. But that they’d put that burden on _you_ only and then assume you were an oathbreaker for real, now that’s ridiculous. And that Halfhand just goes and thinks that he can put you through somethin’ like that an’ you won’t suffer from it? Honest, Jon Snow, some of y’r friends are nice people, especially that one who saved Gilly, but this whole place don’t deserve you. I just hope that you’ll do better if you’re in charge now.”

He wants to cry just hearing that, and maybe he wipes at his eyes a bit. He still doesn’t dare go any closer - she’s sitting on the cot in the corner and he’s standing in his cloak and he feels so tired he could crumple on the ground. “I hope so, too,” he says quietly. “Thank you. I just - I couldn’t - I hated lying to you. I’m sorry I ever did.”

“I think I heard you the second time,” she replies, sounding - fond, maybe, and how can she?

“How are you not _angry_ with me?” He blurts, figuring that at most he will know the answer and then he can leave and lick his wounds.

“Oh, I _was_ angry when you left,” she replies, “but it’d be hard to _stay_ angry at you, not after you saved my life, _again_ , and not when I can see well enough why - you think certain things. Never mind. And how is that leg o’ yours fairing?”

“I - what?”

“Your leg. You fought that bloody battle on a _crutch_ , Jon Snow. I might’ve been hurt, but _I noticed_.”

He swallows. “It’s fine now.”

“You mind if I take a look?”

He feels like his heart just skipped ten beats at once. “I - no.”

“Fine. Sit. And off with that cloak.”

He shrugs the cloak off, slowly, putting it on the only chair in the room, then he sits down on the edge of the bed, the one farther away from the head. He takes off his boot, then grabs the hem of his breeches and pulls them up slightly. The wound _has_ healed but the skin is still tender, and the scar is bright red on his pale skin, and there may be only candlelight in the room, but it must be obvious, because she grimaces at the sight of it.

“Was it one of mine own arrows?” She asks, her fingers brushing against the scarred skin.

“I don’t know. The feather was covered in blood. If it was yours, I’d have only deserved it.”

She puts her fingers delicately on the wound, massaging slowly around it, and he groans in relief - he shouldn’t, but it wasn’t too loud and it feels _good_.

“Does it hurt still?” She asks.

“Not all the time, but - it could be worse.”

“Right,” she says, moving back, her fingers still kneading.

“Jon?” She asks, and now she sounds _very_ serious.

“Yes?”

“When you said you’d have said yes to your king’s offer, if _I_ was there with you, you meant _what_?”

He should probably lie. He’s too tired for it.

“I love you,” he says instead. “I never stopped. I couldn’t stop when I left and I know it’s foolish because _now_ it would just - I don’t know _how_ , and you have all reasons to not want it, but I do. That’s what I meant?”

“Gods, you _really_ know nothing sometimes,” she huffs, and then, “should I kiss it better?”

Suddenly, he’s glad he’s sitting because otherwise he’d have crashed down to the ground.

“You - you want to?” He breathes.

“Jon, if _you_ can’t stop lovin’ someone even after you leave them, what tells you I could do the same just because you left? Also, you stole me.”

“I’ve never stolen you,” he laughs, shakily, feeling like he could break down in tears.

“You know nothing,” she grins, and it’s never felt sweeter to hear that line - “So, should I? And _yes_ , I want to. I thought that was clear when I _asked_ , Jon Snow.”

He should say no.

He _should_.

But - today - for the first time _something_ went right, in he can’t remember how long, and hells, he’s _in charge_ now, so who’s going to berate him for breaking his fucking vows? The Lord Commander?

“If - I’d like that,” he says. “Very much.”

“Then I will,” she grins, “but I think you’re forgetting _something_. That is, if you still want to.”

For a moment he doesn’t even breathe. She’s just - _oh_. If -

Of course _he still wants to_.

But never in his wildest dreams he had imagined she would still want him, never mind -

“What if I do?” He asks, his voice shaking way too much for his own tastes.

“Ask,” she grins, leaning down, her mouth _this_ close to the mass of scarred tissue, _this_ close to actually kiss him _there_ , if he just says it, and -

Who even is going to hear him?

“Please, mother?” He whispers, figuring that she’ll understand that he can’t really risk anyone hearing him.

“Of course, sweetling,” she replies, _grinning_ , and before he can say anything she leans down and trails kisses all over his leg and the scarred red skin all over it, running her tongue softly where it’s more tender, and he has to turn and bite down on the blanket so he doesn’t scream, and this while her fingers still knead around the healthy skin instead, and by the time she’s done and has pressed her mouth all over it, his shoulders are shaking so hard he thinks the bed might shake along with him.

He almost groans in displeasure when she finally moves away, but he has no time to because she’s grabbed her shoulders and turned him over so that his back is properly on the mattress and his head on the pillow, her knees around his hips and her hands back on his face.

And then her hand moves down around his neck, her thumb finding his pulse, and -

And he _didn’t want to think about it_ but he suddenly remembers how it had felt when he grabbed Ser Alliser’s throat _before_ and he said -

 _You see for yourself, brothers, the boy is a wildling_ -

She moves it back at once.

“What’s wrong?” She asks, and - he really can’t fool her, can he?

“Nothing, I - when they imprisoned me first. Slynt said I’d hang and he said other things I didn’t particularly care for -”

“What, that I was your _whore_?”

“That, too. And something about my father, but never mind. I might’ve figured that I was as good as dead. I, uh, grabbed Ser Thorne by the throat. According to him, it was proof enough that I was one of yours.”

“What, free folk?”

“Yes,” he shrugs. “I just - I didn’t mean to. I didn’t even think.”

She moves her hand away and says nothing, placing a kiss right where she had touched him before -

“I’d have tried to cut that crow’s throat first thing after meeting ‘im,” she shakes her head. “And I think most of us would. If he thinks having waited _that_ long to do such a thing makes you a _savage_ , he knows even less than anyone ever could.”

Suddenly, he doesn’t feel _that_ guilty about having done that any more, and he _does_ laugh a bit because she’s right, after all, and when he meets her eyes again she’s looking down at him with such fondness that he thinks he might burst for real.

He doesn’t know what he’s ever done to deserve it, to be honest, but he’s not going to question -

He blinks when she tugs at his hair, sharp.

“How about you listen to me for a damned moment?” She asks, and - oh, _did he speak out loud_?

“Yes,” he agrees at once.

“Good. Now,” she goes on, her hold becoming looser, her thumb brushing all over his face, “ _deserving_ people is a very stupid notion. You don’t pick an’ choose based on _that_. You’ve done to me things I didn’t necessarily like, but you’ve done them because you _did your duty_ , as stupid as it sounds to me, and it’s not _wrong_ that you’ve done that. You’ve lied because you were ordered to and you followed it, and you still went out of your way to make sure I didn’t die on you. And you did that for people who were about to bloody _hang_ you. An’ fine, you stole me, and don’t you dare saying you didn’t, ‘cause you _did_ , but I told you, if I didn’t want to you, I’d have cut your throat long before we ever slept together.” She leans down, kissing his forehead, her voice dropping down to a whisper. “I didn’t cut your throat just ‘cause you let me go back when you stole me.”

He’s not even going to deny that anymore, he has a feeling. “I didn’t because I _liked_ you, an’ for better or worse, I _love_ you, and that’s also _because_ you are the way you are, even if you could do with not trying to kill yourself out of duty a bit less. Understood?”

“I - yes,” he whispers back.

“I hope you did. You’re - as much as you still know nothing, you’re a _good_ person an’ a _better_ one than most around you for bloody sure. And I wouldn’t want to be with a man who’s not one. And _yes_ , I still want you. Very much. Was that clear?”

“Yes,” he says, barely hearing himself, and he has to close his eyes for a moment because it’s _too much_ -

“Sweet, what’s wrong?” She asks a moment later, and her fingers are running over his cheekbones, so gently he could cry.

“It’s just - since I came back I learned - my father died long ago, Robb’s dead, too -” _And Lady Catelyn, too, and for how much there was no love lost in between us she deserved no such death_ , “Mormont died, but I _knew_ , all my siblings but one are, too, and the one who’s left - she - we weren’t close.” He doesn’t know _why_ he’s vomiting all of this now but he’s just so _tired_ , he can’t anymore. “I couldn’t bear you dying on me, too, but I didn’t think you would - I wouldn’t have even asked, and now I can’t -”

“ _Jon_. Sweetling, look up.”

He does, if anything because when she uses _that_ tone he could hardly deny her anything, could he, and she’s still looking at him like she wouldn’t like to be anywhere else. “Remember what I told you after we climbed that wall? All men must die.”

“But first we’ll live?” He finishes, not quite grasping what she’s aiming at.

“But first we’ll live. Good. But I also said something else.”

Something else -

_Oh._

“ _You_ are mine, but _I_ am _yours_ , too, and I’m _not_ dying on you. Well, I’ll try not to, anyway. That clear?”

“Yes.” It was. But - “Promise me?” He hates how needy it sounds and how his voice is sounding downright pleading, but he needs to hear it, he needs to _know_ she won’t, and -

“I promise,” she replies, and whether she keeps it it’s obvious that she _means_ it, and he could kiss her and he wants to, but before he does he leans up and just throws his arms around her shoulders, shuddering in relief when she does the same, one hand running along his spine, one in his hair, her fingers combing through it, and wasn’t it tangled, but he can’t care less. She can do it as long as she likes, and he’ll breathe against her shoulder and tell himself that _for now_ he doesn’t have to worry about anything else.

Except -

“I should go,” he whispers, and it’s painfully obvious that he _doesn’t_ want to.

“Maybe,” she agrees, “but I think you’ve had a long day and there’s nothing wrong if you take some rest. I’ll get you up in a bit. That all right?”

He nods, and then she mutters something under her breath about uncomfortableness. “Be a dear and stand up a moment, won’t you? I need to move.”

He lets her shoulders go even if doesn’t really want to and stands up, hoping that his legs don’t give out for how tired he is, and she rolls over, moving with her back against the wall and a leg dangling from the side of the bed. Then she holds a hand out.

He grabs it with his burned one and lets her pull him down in between her legs - she puts back her left on the bed after he’s lying down with his head pillowed on her breast on the side where the arrow _didn’t_ hit her. Her hand’s back in his hair again a moment later, the other around his shoulders, and he falls into a light doze that doesn’t turn into a nightmare as she hums softly under her breath.

He might not ever be _hers_ officially, he thinks, but he knows that if he can’t be hers or the Watch’s then he won’t be anyone else’s and the though makes warmth spread all through his veins.

For now, that’ll do.

 

V

 

It’s not that Ygritte thinks that magic could _not_ be in this world.

But she’s never been too trustful of that red woman’s - she didn’t like how she stares at her princess, nor how she stared at _Jon_ , but she had gone with the other spear wives because she had understood that it was a better course of action, only meeting with Jon once in a while (Dolorus Edd would come search for her and bring a message, and she would do the same through him), so it’s not as if she could have done anything about it.

Still -

Still, at she stares at Jon’s pale, cold, _dead_ face lying on that bed, she _wants_ it to work, somehow.

Except that she did her incantation, or whatever the hell it was, a while ago, and nothing had happened at once, and now he’s still dead, dark knife scars scattered all over his pale chest, and her only consolation is that Tormund promised her that _she_ could pull the lever when it was Marsh’s and Thorne’s turn to hang.

Those _fools_. Jon was just trying to do the right thing, same as _always_ , wasn’t he, and they couldn’t make peace with the concept of free folk crossing the Wall and fighting _the same bloody foe_.

“Those people never deserved you,” she whispers under her breath, moving closer to the bed. “We should’ve stayed in that cave, Jon Snow.” She _won’t_ cry, she _won’t,_ but her eyes still burn as she brushes the tip of her fingers over his cold cheek.

Gods, maybe he really knew nothing when they met, she thinks fondly, but _he was learning_ , and he _had_ learned from being free with them, and he had understood they shouldn’t fight each other, and maybe they should have, too. And he did save Mance

(he told her, during one of those meetings, that he never burned)

and he had _cried_ in front of her when he told her what he had to do to save his baby, too, and she couldn’t be angry at him for _that_ , not when he was saying that _it wasn’t the kind of decision he wished he had to take_ and when it was obvious it was gutting him.

And what did those damned kneelers do? _What_?

Kill him and stab him in the back like the oathbreakers they fucking are. And then they dared calling _him_ one.

And thing is - when he was sleeping, _before_ , it was about one of the few times she saw him looking like something _wasn’t_ haunting him.

( _The others were when they were lying together._ )

Now - now he looks haunted, not anywhere close to peaceful. Death should be peaceful. This one wasn’t.

Her shoulder, the one where the arrow struck her, is hurting.

Jon’s wolf quietly walks into the room, crouching at her feet. He whines quietly - he’s always quiet, the way Jon always was, isn’t he? - and she reaches down to stroke his head. It’s not hard, given that his head touches her breasts if he stands.

With the back of the other hand, she brushes the scarred side of Jon’s face - it had faded, a bit, but she still rues the moment Orell did that. He _did_ have the sweetest face, before, and he has it now, too, for that matter.

She shouldn’t even be here, but no one else stayed and no one told her to leave, and she said that if he wasn’t going to _come back_ , whatever the red woman did, then she was going to mourn him properly because _someone_ had to. Good thing his friends agreed and said that at least no one would have thought of doing anything while she was there.

She likes his friends.

If only _all_ of the Watch had been like them.

That pretty one, Satin, had broken down in sobs at some point.

(Pretty, but Jon’s face was way, way sweeter to her.)

She hasn’t, not yet, even if she _wants_ to, and she knows he would have cried for her if she had died from that wound, but - but she’s not sure she’s ready to.

She finds his hand. It’s cold. He doesn’t hold hers back the way he did back when they were still _free_ (but he wasn’t, not as she had thought).

His burned fingers are cold and unresponsive, but they feel the same as usual, superficially. _Superficially_.

“I should’ve made _you_ promise to not die on me,” she sighs. “Guess _I_ knew nothing, this time, didn’t I?”

She doesn’t expect an answer or anything of the kind. She probably should just admit to herself that he’s gone and she should grieve him properly and worry about burning him, because the last thing she wants is for him to open his eyes and seeing them turned from that grey she came to love to sparkling blue -

But then she feels his hand _spasming_ against hers.

She drops it as she chokes back a scream, but then she reaches for it again.

His fingers _twitch_.

Ghost immediately growls and moves outside the room - she runs to close the door, because _something_ is telling her that it won’t be a wight she’ll see when she goes back to the bed, and if it’s not then she doesn’t want everyone to run in here as selfish as it might sound.

She closes the door, runs back to his bedside, holds his hand again. It’s twitching, _frantically_ , and there’s a bit of color coming back to his cheeks, and his eyes are tight the way they used to be when he had nightmares -

And then he opens his mouth and takes a deep, panicked breath just as his eyes ( _grey_ , gods, _grey_ ) slam open as if he can’t fathom it’s actually happening, his cheeks going from ashen white to pale pink.

Except that then that breath dies in his throat and he looks at here with a desperate stare, as if he’s _choking_ on it.

She doesn’t even think before she shakes her head, takes his face

( _that has never looked sweeter to her_ )

in between her hands and looks straight down at him.

“Jon. _Jon_ ,” she blurts, trying to sound calm because _he_ surely is not, “take a breath, sweet. Just one.”

She can see his throat working as he nods slightly and does.

“Good,” she says, keeping his eyes on hers. “Good, now take another. It’s all right.”

He does, shakily. “Ygritte?” He croaks, sounding completely confused.

“Aye. Breathe, don’t hold it in.”

He takes another couple, in and out, in and out, but then - “I - it’s - I was - I was _dead_ -”

She shakes her head. “Jon. You _were_ , and now you’re _not_ , and I need you to _not die on me again_ and to take another.”

He nods, but he looks like he’s about to choke all over again while his eyes tear up and -

She hadn’t meant to let _that_ slip, she wouldn’t say it if she didn’t know he _wanted_ it first, but she needs him to stop panicking and he _did_ seem to want it _before_ if he was getting more distressed than usual.

“Jon, Jon, sweetling, _don’t_.”

She hadn’t mean to _say_ it -

But suddenly he’s looking up at her with more awareness, and he’s shaking somewhat less.

Well, fine. She’s going to make sure he doesn’t _fucking die on her again_ , then she’ll worry about the rest.

“Good,” she says, trying to _not_ make her voice shake, “ _good_ , now be a dear and _breathe_. Do it for me, all right?”

Thing is - he _does_ , shakily, but he _does_ , and when she’s sure he’s not going to panic on her she moves one of her hands to his hair, carding through it slowly as she keeps on telling him he’s doing great and that he has to do it until he’s not _thinking_ about it, feeling him relax into the touch a bit, and when he’s finally doing it without being prompted she about wants to weep in relief herself. Gods, he’s _alive_ , whatever trick she pulled it _worked_ , and - she has a hand on his neck now, and his pulse is going strong, actually maybe _too fast_ , and that won’t do.

“That was very good,” she encourages him, hoping that he’ll _say_ something. “You did _so_ good, sweetling.”

“I was _dead_ ,” he whispers again, with more clarity.

“Yes,” she tells him, figuring it would be ridiculous to deny the contrary. “But now you’re _alive_. It was that red woman who brought you back,” she starts, but she can’t see that he can’t care less about _how_ right now. “Never mind. I know. I can’t imagine how it feels. Sweetling, tell me what you need. I can go call -”

The moment she says that word he freezes and he suddenly bites down on his hand, probably not to scream, but he’s doing it _hard_ and -

She shakes her head, grabs his wrist and moves it out of his mouth as gently as she can.

“All right, I’m not calling anyone, but hurting y’rself like that won’t work. Sweetling, _tell me_.”

When he opens his eyes, he’s looking at her with such misery, she feels like someone punched her in the gut. “They - they -” He looks down at his chest, and - oh, _right_ , the sheet covering it has fallen down to his hips and you can see a field of knife wounds, all still tender, all still dark, and to think that even with the few scars he had before, his chest was the only part of him that was unmarred.

 _And I’ve four years on him_ , Ygritte thinks, and wants to tell him, _no one should look like this at your age, Jon Snow._

“Tormund took most of ‘em prisoners,” she says, trying to keep her voice calm, “and the only people I was ‘bout to warn were your _friends_ and ‘im and a few others. But it doesn’t have to happen now. And - aye, they did, and they know even less than you ever might have.”

“I never -” He starts, choking the question, and he sounds so miserable she decides to just _do it_ and leans down, kissing his mouth softly, lightly.

“I _know_ ,” she says. “You were doin’ your best. You _always_ have. They were _wrong_ and you didn’t deserve any of _that_. You _did your best_.” She says it with as much sureness as she can put into it.

Then she realizes that given how raspy he sounds maybe he could do with drinking some water, except that he doesn’t look like he’s going to stand up anytime soon, and he’s looking at her like he can’t wrap his head around what she’s saying.

“I’ll get you something to drink,” she tells him, but then his hand goes around her wrist and grasps it so strongly she almost flinches.

“No,” he croaks, and no, he _really_ needs to get some water in him, given how cracked his lips look. “Please _don’t_ , I -”

“I don’t have to leave,” she says, “it’s just on the desk.” Or at least she _thinks_ there was a pitcher of water over there. “Or maybe you should just come with,” she says, and helps him up as he nods, and good think there was _another_ sheet they tied to his waist before or it’d have fallen down and he doesn’t look like he’d relish being completely naked in this cold, never mind that the moment he stands up he stumbles on his legs and it’s obvious moving isn’t coming too easy. Of course it wouldn’t.

 _He was dead not an hour ago_ , she thinks, and then puts his arm around her shoulder so he can lean on her as she reaches the other side of the room where thankfully there’s both cup and pitcher on the desk. Except that she can’t bring them back to bed in one hand, so she sits him down on the nearest chair and pours some water into the cup - it’s cold, too, but it’ll have to do - and puts it to his lips, holding the back of his head up so he doesn’t choke on it.

She lets out a relieved breath when he drinks all of it - small sips, but he does.

“Better, isn’t it?” She asks, not expecting an answer. He’s still taking in deep breaths as she puts the cup away, and then she notices what he’s looking at.

Of course he’s looking down at his bare chest.

Which looks like a battlefield right now. She moves in front of the chair, and then she lets a hand trail softly along his face until her fingertips brush against the first of those knife scars. “Sweetling, does it hurt?”

“Yes,” Jon blurts, barely audible.

“Good. Does it hurt a _lot_?”

He nods, biting down on his lip, and gods, she _has_ seen him looking like he needed to sleep for two moons straight but never like _this_.

“Hey, you don’t have to pretend it _doesn’t_ hurt. None of that, you’re hurt enough without doin’ it yourself.”

Carefully, _very_ carefully, she touches the one right above his heart. “And you shouldn’t. _Where_ do they hurt?”

“Everywhere,” he replies a moment later, as if it’s some kind of shame that he _might_ actually feel it.

“All of them?”

“Yes,” he sobs, and it’s obvious he’s thinking back on it.

She shakes her head. “None of that,” she shakes her head. “Not _now_. You can think about those bloody crows later. D’you remember when I asked you if I should’ve kissed _that_ better for you?” She nods towards his face and suddenly his cheeks turn slightly redder - _good_.

“Yes,” he nods, still barely audible, but that’s good enough for her.

“I want to do that now,” she goes on, “for _them_.” She gestures at his chest. “But just if you want that, too.”

“You - you _would_?” She wishes he wouldn’t sound like he can’t believe that she’d ask.

“‘Course I would. But you have to tell me, sweetling.”

“ _Why_?”

She wishes she knew what he’s thinking right now, but she can’t fathom it, not when he’s looking up at her as if he’s half feeling so abjectly miserable he could drop dead again and half as if he can’t even believe she’s there.

“Because you deserved none of that, and people who try their best should get good things in exchange, not - not _this_ , and _you died on me first_ an’ if you think I don’t _love you_ you still know nothing. Now be a dear and _tell me_ , and then I’m bringing you back to that bed which’d be a lot more comfortable, and you don’t have to talk anymore if you don’t want to.”

He nods, his hands suddenly reaching up for her, but he gets the motion somehow wrong and he grabs at her wrists rather than her shoulders as he obviously was aiming at.

She thinks she got the point. She threads her fingers with his, squeezing. Then -

“D’you want me to kiss them better?” She asks, keeping her voice firm.

“Yes,” he answers a beat later. “Gods, _please_ , I -”

“That’s all right,” she shushes him, “no need to beg. Come on, not out here.”

She holds out a hand after backing away and standing up straight and he grasps it, and he’s standing up a bit more straight as she steers him towards the mattress - at least that’ll be soft. She sits him down on it, throwing the fur covers over his legs before he fucking freezes, and then she climbs over the bed, her knees around his legs.

“Back against the wall, sweet,” she says as she makes sure he’s leaning against the pillow and standing up straight, it’ll make it easier. “Good, now don’t move. I’ve got you, all right?”

She waits for him to nod, and then she leans down and brushes her lips along that first knife scar - his skin is cold but it’s warming up, and she can feel his heart under her hand when she presses her palm against _that_ one scar while her tongue is running along another one (older and already faded), and she can feel his chest hitch under her mouth with every single kiss she places on his skin, and gods but she’s going to ask to hang at least _one_ of those crows if only because they had no right to turn his skin into a pattern of scars that she’s seen on maybe a few _seasoned_ warriors in the free folk when he hasn’t even seen twenty years. Maybe one day they’ll fade to white but not _this_ one, and from the way he’s trembling it’s obvious that he’s not taking it well, either, and who _wouldn’t_.

She drops kisses all the way to his waist, stops where bare skin is covered by the furs and then kisses her way back up, sighing in relief when one of his hands tentatively grasps her hair, though not too strongly, and when she’s covered that path backwards she doesn’t stop at his collarbone but runs her tongue along his neck and up to his jaw, kissing his cheek before she leans back and looks at him in the eyes.

Or well, that was the point, but he has them closed while his lips are slightly parted and his pulse is beating wildly under her thumb.

She shakes her head, moves closer, an arm around his back and her free hand back to the scarred side of his face.

She kisses that scar again

( _the first she tried to heal for him, as much as she could_ )

and then she clears her throat - he just barely put himself together before, she doesn’t think it would be a good thing if he shattered again.

“Jon?”

He doesn’t say anything, except that his arms lock around her waist, and good thing she’d never minded a strong hold in her life because he’s doing it so tight she can barely breathe.

“Sweetling, show me those pretty eyes of yours. You kept them close far too long, if you ask me.”

It _does_ work, because he breathes in sharply, again, and his eyelashes flutter a moment or two before he finally _does_ open them, looking up at her.

They’re still that same, lovely shade of grey. _She_ could cry for it, honestly, but one of them needs to keep things straight and she knows it won’t be him. “Thank you,” she tells him, sincerely, and then leans down to kiss one brow, then the other. “Now - sweet, you don’t have to talk to me, but I need to know how you’re doing, all right?”

He nods, shakily, but he does.

“Good. You said it hurt everywhere before, but it’s just the _wounds_ , aye?”

He nods again.

“So, nowhere _else_?”

He shakes his head, and given that he’s holding her stare she’s pretty sure he’s not lying or downplaying it.

“Not your head or any such thing?”

He shakes his head again. “So everything else feels the same as before?”

He takes a moment to think about it but then he nods again.

 _Gods, it did really work_ , she thinks, dizzy with relief. She should call the others. But _not now_.

“Good,” she says, though it’s more for _her_ than for him. “You’ll be fine then.”

“But - _how_?” He finally asks.

She shrugs. “The red woman. Did some magic and here you are, but she said it wouldn’t work on just ‘bout anyone, and she also said that most people her god’s magic brings back are - changed. Doesn’t seem to me you are. I suppose I plucked the right rose from Winterfell’s garden now, didn’t I?”

“You - _the right one_?”

“Jon Snow, seems like for as much as you think otherwise, if that magic doesn’t work on _just about anyone_ , that you’re pretty damn special. Not that I wouldn’t have loved you if you _weren’t_ , but I’m glad you are or you’d have really died on me and that’s not what either of us wanted, I think.”

She had hoped he’d laugh.

Not that he’d flinch.

“I - I’m sorry,” he blurts.

“You’re _sorry_?”

“That I died on you,” he goes on. “I made you promise you _wouldn’t_ and then _I_ did?”

“You made no such promise to _me_.” She shakes her head and gods but she wants to kiss him again, proper, but she wants to make sure he’s _with her_ first and not somewhere else. “And you came back to me, didn’t you?”

At that he shudders, and by now he’s warmed up, and that’s when as she shifts her position a bit she feels that, back from the dead or no, he’s hard under those furs, and he’s jerking his hips upwards looking for friction and at _that_ she doesn’t think she can keep on going _slow_.

“You know,” she says, her eyes staring into his, “it’s not been long. But I - I thought I lost you for good, and I didn’t _want_ to,” she admits, figuring that it’s moot to not show him _that_ , and if her eyes are a bit wet, well, who’d blame her?

And then -

 _Then_ -

“I was _dead_ ,” he sobs, “and there was _nothing_ and I _felt_ dead and -”

“Sweetling, what do you need?”

“Make it better,” he pleads, quite damn literally _pleads_ , as if he needs to, and -

Fine.

 _Fine_.

“Like this?” She asks before leaning down and kissing him, sighing as he opens up for her immediately and as she finds his mouth as soft and warm as before and the touch of his tongue as familiar.

“More,” he gasps when the kiss is done.

“Well, ‘m glad you finally learned you can ask for things,” she tries to joke, even if it falls a bit flat, and then she works her breeches open as she kisses him again, telling him that he doesn’t need to do anything and that she’s going to worry about the rest - when she’s managed to shrug out of them along with her boots, she pulls the furs away and undoes the knot on the sheet covering him from the waist downwards and _yes_ , he’s very much hard and very much strung all over. And gods but she’s never wanted him in her so _much_ , if anything because maybe she also wants to feel how exactly he’s _not dead_ now, and maybe another time she’d have tried to draw this for a while longer but that’s not what either of them needs and so she holds him close as she sinks down on him, feeling the slight burn of it and treasuring the pleased, _needy_ sound that leaves his mouth as she does.

“You feel that?” She whispers against his ear. “Do you feel _me_?”

“You’re _warm_ ,” he blurts, “it was so _cold_ before -”

“But it’s not now, is it, sweet?” She doesn’t move for now. Not yet. “You can forget I’m goin’ back with the others now. Do you feel how much I _want_ you, now?”

He lets out a whine that sounds like a yes, and she starts moving slowly, at first, but then she can’t really keep that rhythm because he’s shallowly thrusting up against her mirroring her motions, and she can’t take it slow, not _now_ , and so she crushes their mouths together again as she rides him faster and _faster_ , and she’s sure he’s holding on to her tight enough she’ll have bruises tomorrow but she can’t care less. As if a spearwife would get scared by a couple bruises, anyway.

“There,” she encourages him, “ _there_ , just keep on going, you’re doing so _good_ , just give it to me, sweetling - I’m not goin’ anywhere and _neither are you_ and we’ll both have to die but we _will_ live some before then, all right?”

He nods against her chest, once, twice, and she leans down to kiss him again as she feels him slow down and knowing that he’s going to come sooner rather than later - his hair’s a mess of sweat by now but it doesn’t matter. Not at all.

“Come on,” she whispers against his mouth when they break the kiss, “I know you’re close, just be good for me and _do it_ , sweet,” and then he’s slamming his mouth against hers and he’s coming inside her as her thighs clench down and her cunt along with it, and he’s shaking so hard she’s too worried with running her hands along his back to worry about anything else - she rains kisses over his forehead as he trembles against her, warm and scarred and _living_ , his grip getting a bit more lax.

For a moment, neither of them says a thing, and he’s catching her breath as she untangles the mess that his hair turned into, but then -

“You haven’t,” he says, his now free hand gesturing towards her womb.

She doesn’t ask him how he knows - they’ve done this so many times he’d _know_ if she didn’t.

“It’s all right, sweetling,” she says, “that was for the both of us but I didn’t have to.”

“No,” he protests, “no, you _should_ -”, and then he looks up at her again, his burned hand tentatively touching her thigh. “Please, can I -”

He doesn’t call her names and she figures that it’d be too much right now, but it’s the same tone he’d use back before he left her and all the others near that tower and it’s the exact same face, and after all, she’s been playing that game until now, hasn’t she?

“Sweetling, you _always_ can,” she says, and a moment later his fingers are slipping inside her, and his hand is slightly trembling and it’s obvious that he still hasn’t completely managed to regain proper motion because he’s a lot less sure than he was when he used to do this to her _before_ , but he knows the motions and he doesn’t waste time rubbing her clit with his thumb while he has two other fingers right inside her, thrusting as if he’ll make her come if it’s the last thing he ever does, and gods but it feels _good_ , it feels as good as always, and -

“Yes,” she urges him. “Yes, yes, _there_ , harder, gods, Jon, _sweetling_ , you’re so good for me, there’s no one else I could want - _oh_ ,” she moans, clenching around his fingers, feeling her blood boil, and then she opens her eyes and looks down at him and the moment she sees how his own are full of pure, naked yearning she can only let go and it’s not the longest time he had his hands inside her but it feels like it, and when she peaks it’s _hard_ , and when he feels her doing it with his hand trapped inside her and her hand grasping at his hair she can see his shoulders lose tension and the tired lines of his face get softer, and -

Now that they’re _both_ spent, she feels exhausted, and she leans upwards to let him move his hand, and her stomach about twists over on itself when instead of cleaning it off on the bedsheets he licks it clean.

She holds his wrist up and kisses his palm in return before reaching back up for the covers, bringing them upwards to cover their legs. She cups his face again, slow, and if he’s looking up at her adoringly, she doesn’t think her own stare must be so different.

“Tell you what,” she whispers, “I’m stayin’ here until you rest a bit. Then I’m tellin’ the others it worked and that you _live_ because they also were miserable for it and they don’t deserve to not know, but I’m also tellin’ them that you’re tired and you’ll be out but not _right now_. If the red woman insists too much I’m lettin’ her take a look at you but only if she lets Ghost be inside it, too, and possibly someone else. Then I’m finding you some clothing that’s not completely torn to shreds, you can go take a bath and then you can decide what is best from now on - if anythin’, you’ve got a few traitors to hang. Meanwhile, you can decide whether you wanna go get your sister after all or not - at this point, no one’s going to deny you anything. That sounds good to you?”

He nods. “Yes - it does. I - I know I have to go, but - not right now.”

“No one said you had to,” she replies, and moves so that she’s leaning against the wall and Jon’s head is pillowed on her chest. He doesn’t feel so tense, and she can feel his heartbeat under her hand, and -

“Ygritte?” He blurts, so low she doubts she’d have heard it if his mouth hadn’t been this close to her skin and she hadn’t _felt_ him talk.

“What do you need?” She asks, think she knows what he wants.

“Do you think - you could sing to me again?”

“Sweetling, if you think I _wouldn’t_ want to, you _still_ know nothing, but that’s all right after all.”

“That’s - _all right_?”

“Jon, I really wouldn’t want you any other way,” she breathes against the crown of his head, not even trying to hide how _happy_ she is that he’s _not dead_ from her voice, and if whoever’s outside might start wondering why would she start singing _Winterfell’s Rose_ to someone who’s not even _alive, from_ what they know, let them wonder.

She doesn’t owe them an explanation and neither does he, and there’s really nothing wrong in giving him such an easy thing when it’s something he _likes_ , and as her voice fills the room and he closes his eyes looking _finally_ like he’s resting and not like he’s doing it out of bare necessity, she wonders if next time she should just do it without him having to ask. Maybe she will.

If anything, if he’s never had anyone do that for him, their loss and her gain because she thinks she did come to love the way he curls into her with such trust the moment she does it, and maybe at the beginning she was fine with it because it was obviously something _he_ wanted and she was glad to do it _for_ him when it cost nothing to her and it wasn’t even such an outlandish thing to ask.

Now she thinks she’s come to like it for what it makes _her_ feel, too, and maybe she’ll tell him one day so he’ll stop looking ashamed for that split moment before he asks, and if after having _died and come back_ he does realize shame is just wasted time, she can only hope it’s the one good thing he learns from this.

 

 

End.


End file.
